


unseemly

by orphan_account



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, accidental almost murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There had to be something wrong with her.Holden would find out.





	unseemly

**Author's Note:**

> I had this up on another account for a hot minute and deleted it due to ~extenuating circumstances~ but it's back up now because *Shel Silverstein voice* fuck'em
> 
> Set early season, Holden is a useless baby necrophile, Debbie do better

One of those nights, on her back. The sheet crunched under her. She looked at the ceiling. It had been white once but years of cigarette smoke had turned it a sick yellow-brown. She’d picked the lamps to hide the stains, make it look intentional.

Debbie flicked her nipple.

Holden between her legs. She should like his dark head bobbing, his broad white shoulders tensing. Devastating, she’d called him, once or twice. The human body bent weird and he looked like some subterranean thing pulled out of a swamp cave. Eyeless, ghost-pale. Holden was barely human anyways, he didn’t act like people should, and she enjoyed, in some dark way, she enjoyed the thought of boyfriend-as-monster. She enjoyed the thought more than she was currently enjoying his lips on her pussy.

She shifted her hips and he took it the wrong way and looked up. She arched into his mouth, he got the point, but it was lost. Start and stop, God, how many times had she told him about start and stop? Fucking useless baby. She went resentful. A mortal sin against her body.

Truth be told she hadn’t been very interested in it anyways. He came home from work, they had a drink, she lay on the back on the crunched-up sheets because that’s what you did, didn’t you, after a drink with your devastatingly handsome rarely-there boyfriend, when he was too lost in his work to have a normal conversation. Shut him up about _sequences_ shoving her pussy in his mouth.

He licked. He made his tongue into a pinpoint just under her clit. She should have liked it and it made her even more annoyed that she didn’t. She glared at the ceiling and tapped her foot on his shoulder. When he didn’t get it she kicked, light.

He looked up.

“Stop,” she said.

He had his tongue just protruding from his lips. His mouth was open. He looked stupid and he had a sweaty cowlick across his forehead.

“I’m not feeling it,” she said. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

She sat up on one elbow. He no longer looked like a swamp creature: he was sweet, and too handsome for the wracked genius ratclaw huntedness thundering around in his pretty head. She liked him and felt bad.

“I’m just tired,” she said, by way of apology. She pulled herself up to the pillows and patted the mattress. “Come here?”

He pulled himself on the bed and crawled. Debbie felt her tongue in the side of her mouth. She swallowed to make it go away. She puffed out the sheet and slid under it. Curled up. He settled beside her, planted a flowery kiss on her shoulder.

His erection against her back. Debbie stared into the mattress.

She rolled over and kissed his forehead.

“Not tonight,” she said.

“You already said,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

_Worry?_

She lay there, pretending to be asleep. She waited for the bed to creak, for him to finish himself off in the bathroom, for him to roll over and pump his dick, breaths squeezing out between his teeth.

He didn’t move.

After a while Debbie put a hand on his lips. Even breathing.

“Oh,” she said, and didn’t know why.

She pulled his arm over her ribs and fell asleep too.

 

 

 

 

Debbie thought about that the next day, in class, and she thought about _deviant_ , as you shouldn’t be thinking about your boyfriend’s dick in class, probably. One of her professors had assigned _Venus in Furs_ for an aberrant psychology class, ages ago, and she had read the first twenty pages in the university library before an embarrassed security guard tapped her shoulder. He had been dispatched to collect every copy. Obscenity.

She liked being obscene.

Men defined obscene, and their definitions were burnished by the grandmotherly types, and she read about them in her psychology textbooks and a little fly buzzed between her legs.

She had been fourteen for the Summer of Love. Holden had been nineteen. He’d been embedded in the counter-culture at some point, hadn’t he? She imagined him slow-moving, as if through molasses, down the streets of Haight-Ashbury, in a fringed vest: she imagined it getting too hot and him peeling out of it. Summer tan, sweat beading at his temples, cowlick. Dazed by the possibility. Some hostel, some squat, mandala-patterned sheets, Holden sun-bronzed, showing the summer to a series of girls, kneeling, his arms hooked under them, his cock rising to be trapped in his jeans. His blush spread down his shoulders when he fucked: it came to a triangle halfway down his back. He dug his fingers into the mattress, and he did not go near his belt. He gasped instead, and went red.

There had to be something wrong with her.

Holden would find out.

Debbie bit her knuckle. She found herself unworried. Holden talked about Ed Kemper like a schoolboy crush. She could not in any real way consider herself to be as bad as Ed Kemper, so Holden, whatever he found out, whatever black and sickly thing she had curling in its obscenity around her heart –

The professor cleared his throat and she realized she’d lost the previous five minutes of lecture. She twigged herself on her temple, reminder, and bent over her notepad.

 

 

 

Holden worked a fifty-hour week and came home close to midnight. He came into the bedroom and coughed into his hand. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Debbie sat up against the headboard and rolled her eyes. “Holden.”

He patted for the doorknob.

“Holden. For God’s sake.”

“I – ”

“Are you tired?”

“No,” he said. “God, no.”

He lost his jacket in his haste to get to the bed.

She took his hand and replaced the fingers in her pussy with his. He knew what to do. She’d trained him. She laughed at the word and peeled him out of his shirt. His shoulders were fascinatingly clean and she dug her nails into them. He whimpered into her skin and took her nipple in his mouth. Sucked.

It pleased her to claw at his back. It pleased him too, she could tell, how his tongue moved, how his eyes were glazed when they met hers. His thumb rubbing against her. Finger on the button, she thought, and her first orgasm came quick, bang-pop, shivering around him. God damn his start and stop, he drew his fingers out too quick, he fumbled with his belt. Condom. He always went too slow coming in; she thumped her foot on his back and pressed. He had his fingers playing with her, and his mouth –

The second orgasm went up as far as the back of her throat, deep, rattling, good. Swelled in her.

“Debbie,” he whispered. His hips jerked.

“Wait,” she said.

He stilled.

She drove nails into his back. His eyes rolled up and he released a moan peppered with stars.

She rolled off him. Her pussy throbbed. Fuck. Good. He had his wrist in his mouth. His dick looked ridiculous, plastic-wrapped like leftovers, a dark red. She had words for it and none of them were sexy – blood-filled, swollen. He whimpered.

‘No,” she said, and closed her hand around it. “Wait.”

He gasped, and he scraped his nails across his own belly. He waited.

 

 

 

He wanted to talk about it, after, when they had both calmed down. She pulled the blanket over her head and drummed her feet. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a sequence killer.”

A long pause. “I didn’t say you were. Debbie, what? What the fuck?”

She peeked out from the blanket. He knelt beside her. His cock had softened somewhat but he had red creeping down his back. He hadn’t come.

“I need a shower,” she said.

He followed her there. She looked at him. He was very tall, or at least taller than her, and his shoulders were red, and he had white streaks from clawing himself. She wanted to break him in half at the waist, just to see what either of them would do.

“I liked it,” he said.

“I don’t give a fuck,” she said, and didn’t know why.

He knew why, and she was terrified for a second at his little knowing smile, but it faded quick and he was small again, very small, despite being tall. He bobbed his head and stumbled out.

She took a cold shower. She slept on the couch.

 

 

 

She hated him, the next day, when he came in, because he was smiling and rocket-eyed and pretending not to be. Who had he interviewed today? What _sequence_ had he found? She hated him because she’d been thrown over her goddamn typewriter six hours straight and then the ink ribbon had burst and she’d scrambled for the next but the box was empty. And then she had to go buy another ink ribbon and the older gentleman working the register at the office supply store eyed her with naked hateful lust and she heard him, as she rifled through the shelves, heard him commenting to the pimply teenager in the stockroom, and when she said “Don’t talk about me like that” after handing over her dollars they’d laughed, both of them, and she could not understand why she was so upset – that happened every day, didn’t it, the look, the snigger. And then she’d folded another three hours over her goddamn typewriter. She hated him for being gorgeous locked inside his charcoal suit, hidden, he could have been scraped over with scars and knobbly legs or he could have been beautiful Adonis and the older gentlemen at Quantico would not comment on either. He drowned a little in his too-big jacket and the daddy-bought shoes and he was small and unremarkable though he had a good face. She hated him.

He said “Debbie?” and came to her and held her hand. “Are you okay?”

“Get naked,” she said.

“I,” he said.

Her back hurt. It hurt if she lay down. She stretched up on her toes, hands pointed towards the ceiling, and she whipped down and pressed him against her. She had her blouse still on, her bra unhooked on one shoulder, her skirt barely around her ankles. She kicked his legs open. He had one hand cupping the small of her back and the other grinding into his thigh. Bringing blood almost to the surface. He’d bruise himself. He panted when she twisted a hand in his hair.

He ordered pizza, after, and turned his face from her when she lit the joint. “Plausible deniability,” he said.

“You’re such a square,” she said.

He shrugged. He had a little grease on his cheek. She flicked at it and licked her finger and was slightly embarrassed to discover it wasn’t pizza grease. He hadn’t eaten anything ye – he had eaten one thing. God.

She laughed. She rubbed his broad arm. He closed his eyes taking the joint. He closed his eyes inhaling.

 

 

 

 

Holden had a lot of secrets; he danced around them with much less dexterity than he assumed he had, he lied effortlessly. He had a manhole cover over his past. He pretended this was to protect his previous identities from any fucking sad hippies Debbie might be acquainted with. She let him have that one. Debbie sensed the difference between a narcissist and a fearful child. She came home on Saturday from an early library and found him dead asleep and didn’t understand why. Shouldn’t he be in the basement, with Tench? With the psychologist? He had on a sleeveless shirt. It rode up on his belly. The scratches had gone red.

He had a file next to him on the bed. He had been reading it. It was confidential and she shouldn’t look at it, so she did. Stabbing. Cut up. Women. Always had to be women, didn’t it. She flicked through the file and found his paperclip, found a dog-ear, on one page. The page was a description of the murder weapon. The page talked about slash depth and muscle trauma. The page concluded a broad-handled knife, perhaps a butcher’s knife. The page included illustrations.

He had the top button of his jeans undone.

Debbie stared down at him. Her chest seized.

He was blurry waking up. He stared at her unfocused. “I had a dream,” he said.

“Sit up,” she said.

He saw the knife. His face went very still.

She sat behind him. She caged his hips with her legs. The tip went into his back and he jolted. It didn’t break skin. She just put it there. It was a paring knife because the butcher’s knife was in the sink crusted with god knows what and she didn’t have the brain to clean it. Her head throbbed. The paring knife was small and sharp and could dart through his ribs like a minnow, if she wanted. She had her hand on his mouth and he didn’t get it til she dug harder and then he licked. She wrapped her hand around his cock. He said “Oh” and “Fuck. Oh, fuck, Debbie.”

He ended up almost on his knees; she was slung across his back, the knife sharp-side against his throat, and she squeezed his dick. He whined and his arms shook. His shirt rode up on his back. She rubbed against his jeans.

“Stop waiting,” she said. She poked the knife-tip into his throat.

He collapsed forward to come and she hoped he wasn’t conscious of how close she had been to stabbing him right through the larynx. To make up for her terror she milked his cock and, when he was trembling and spent, brought her hand up to his mouth. He didn’t need to be told.

As his tongue split her fingers open, she thought of deviants. All the deviants in her textbooks and all the deviants in jail cells scattered across the country. She thought about the deviant in her bed. In the deviant in his.

She dropped the knife and pulled him down. She kissed him. He tasted of his own semen. He kissed her.

“Thank you,” he said. “Do you feel better?”

“Do you?”

He shrugged and didn’t exactly laugh. He kissed her arm. She batted his questing fingers away from her crotch. “Go brush your teeth,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be in the office?”

“Tench made me go home to sleep.”

“Sad that you can’t obey simple instructions.”

He grinned. He had a goblin in his teeth. She liked him. She lay down next to him and he put his head on her belly.

The next day he went to talk to Eddie Kemper.

Debbie thought, as he left: Send him my regards.


End file.
